


When Atlas Acts the Maggot

by withthekeyisking



Series: dc kinkmeme fills [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Creampie, Deepthroating, Dick is 18 here but started doing this when he was underage, Double Penetration, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Gangbang, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Panic Attacks, Prostitution, Rape Aftermath, Rope Bondage, Verbal Humiliation, Video-Taping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: When Bruce kicks Dick out, he cuts him off financially as well. Struggling to make ends meet, Dick begins escorting.It goes well for a while.And then it really,reallydoesn't.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/multiple
Series: dc kinkmeme fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771219
Comments: 75
Kudos: 331





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DC Kinkmeme prompt found [here](https://dckinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/766.html?thread=163582#cmt163582)!
> 
> Title from _Be_ by Hozier
> 
>  **Warning!** The first chapter of this fic has very graphic gangrape. You clicked on this fic, you read the tags, you are now seeing this warning. If you continue to go on, that's on you.

Dick reclines in the armchair, legs crossed. He idly picks at his nails, humming a random tune under his breath, as he waits.

He's been here about half an hour now, but he always likes to arrive early. It gives him a chance to adjust to the space, to familiarize himself with his surroundings, which helps him in the long wrong. It takes some of the anxiety away, if he's confident about where he is.

Not that he feels much anxiety anymore, not these days. He's been doing this for long enough that it doesn't make him nervous, which has taken him leaps and bounds in making him better at his job. He's always been an excellent actor, a master of performance, but when you're _actually_ calm as opposed to faking it, clients tend to pick up on it and feel better themselves.

And that's what he's supposed to do, after all. Make his clients feel good.

His phone chimes with an incoming text where it sits on the table next to him, and he picks it up, swiping it open. Immediately his face twists in a grimace; from Bruce, informing him that Jason's birthday is in a few days and they'd all like it if Dick would attend dinner at the Manor.

It's not really from Bruce, Dick knows. It's either from Alfred through Bruce, forcing the man to man up and send Dick a message, or it's from Jason stealing Bruce's phone in a round-about way to get him to visit. Whichever it is, it's _certainly_ not Bruce reaching out of his own volition.

Dick closes the message and switches his phone to _Do Not Disturb,_ trying to push all thoughts of Bruce from his brain for the rest of the night. In the beginning, that had been near impossible; being with a client just reminded him of _why_ he was with a client, which was all about Bruce.

Now, though. Now he's been escorting for a year or so, and he's had time to move past his depression and anxiety and occasional fury. He's stable, in a way he wasn't in the beginning. He has a nice enough apartment, definitely isn't going hungry, and can afford his work as Nightwing.

This wasn't his first choice for a job, nor his second or third, but he's good at it, and it takes care of him. Right now, that's enough.

There's a knock on the door, and Dick pulls himself from his rumination, pasting a smile to his face just as the keycard is swiped, allowing the man outside entry.

Andrew Goren is one of his regulars, which means Dick knows everything about him from his shoe size to his credit history to—of course—what he likes in bed. Just because Dick has sex with people for money doesn't mean he can switch off the vigilante part of his brain, the part that demands he to do a background check on the people he's spending a good amount of time around.

None of them are ever spotless, but it's not like he's expecting them to be; they're hiring an _escort,_ after all. They're not going to be perfectly golden citizens, especially not in Bludhaven. Dick just checks to make sure none of them are _actually_ horrible people.

"Hello, James," Andrew greets with a smile, shutting the door behind him.

 _James_ is the name Dick chose when he started escorting, learning that using your real name was never a good idea. But considering the service he works for is relatively high-class, he wanted a regular name instead of something obviously fake.

"Andrew," Dick returns, standing with a charming smile. "It's good to see you again."

Andrew approaches, pressing a kiss to Dick's jaw, his hands settling on Dick's hips to pull him closer.

Some of Dick's clients like to talk first, like to pretend that they're on a date or something along those lines, like to pretend for a little while that they're not paying Dick to be with them. Some clients don't fuck him at all, just want to talk or be held or just not be alone for a little while.

People hire escorts for many different reasons, after all. It's not always about sex.

With Andrew, though—yeah, he always likes to get straight to business.

Dick tilts his head back easily when Andrew's lips leave his jaw to trail down his neck, pressing firm kisses to his skin. When Dick feels a hint of teeth he pulls back a little, putting a teasingly reproachful smile onto his face; all his clients know his rules, but if they begin to nudge at the barrier they _never_ like to be chastised. It took Dick a little while to figure out the right balance to not offend them but still get his point across.

He kisses Andrew on the mouth instead, appreciating the skill involved, humming into the kiss. Andrew's hands go up to Dick's shoulders, pulling slightly at the material of Dick's suit jacket. Dick follows the unsaid instruction easily, sliding his suit jacket down his arms and then resting it on the back of the armchair.

Next, Dick reaches for Andrew's own jacket, setting it on the armchair as well before working on the knot of the other man's tie. Andrew always likes having Dick strip him piece by piece. Likes watching Dick strip afterwards just as much.

Andrew stops him from undoing his pants, instructing, "You first, baby. Let me see you."

Dick cocks an eyebrow at the change from the norm, but steps back all the same, beginning to strip. Andrew's eyes are dark and hooded as he watches, his bulge obvious in his slacks.

When Dick is naked, Andrew pulls him close again, backing him up towards the bed. He kisses Dick passionately, kisses him like he wants to possess him, and that's nothing new for Dick; the clients who are hyper-aware of the fact that they've hired an escort feel the need to act this way sometimes, like they _own_ him for the time being.

No one owns him. He might sell his body, might sell his time, but he's his own. And that belief is something clients can never take away from him, no matter how hard some of them try.

The backs of Dick's legs have just bumped up against the end of the bed when there's the sound of another keycard swiping against the door, and then the door is swinging open.

Dick gasps, turning to see who the _fuck_ is entering, and is greeted by the sight of four men, all of them grinning at the scene they've come into.

"What the f—"

Dick's words are cut off as Andrew kisses him again, attempting to silence him, but Dick breaks it off quickly, putting his hands on Andrew's chest to keep the man away.

"What the hell is going on?" Dick demands.

"It's okay," Andrew coos. "These are just some friends of mine. You want to show us a good time, don't you, baby?"

Dick lets out an incredulous laugh. "You must be joking. _No._ I didn't agree to this."

One of the men scoffs. "You got paid, didn't you?"

Dick looks at him like he's insane, and pushes a little more firmly on Andrew's chest. The man backs up a little, but not far enough for Dick's comfort, his hands still clenched tightly on Dick's hips.

"I got paid for _one_ guy, not _five._ Sorry fellas. You're welcome to make an appointment with me for another time, but right now is just Andrew."

"Fucking tease," one of the men sneers, and Dick narrows his eyes, then tenses up when the men start approaching.

This is...not good. Alright, he needs to regain control of the situation.

"Andrew, let go of me," Dick says authoritatively.

"But I talked you up to my friends, gorgeous," Andrew tells him. "Promised them you would be a star for 'em. I can't let them down _now."_

Then Andrew shoves Dick back onto the bed. Dick's pulse skyrockets, and he immediately scrambles back, needing to get some space between him and the others. Andrew reaches for him with a scowl, and Dick kicks out, hitting him in the middle of his chest. Andrew wheezes, curving away with a breathless curse, and Dick takes the opportunity to dive to the side, wanting to get to the door.

But two of the men jerk towards him, large hands grasping at skin. Dick twists out of the way, but it puts him in the path of the next man, whose fist is already rushing towards Dick's face before he has time to adjust.

Dick grunts, head snapping back, heart pounding in his chest. Someone grabs him from behind, and he tries to twist out of the hold the way Bruce taught him, but another fist to the face dazes Dick enough that they manage to grab him pretty solidly, yanking him back towards the bed.

"No!" Dick yells. He kicks at the man in front of him and it lands on the man's groin. The man howls, doubling over, face scrunching up in pain and rage.

"Fucking _bitch,"_ he snarls as a second man grabs Dick, helping the man behind him keep him still.

"Get off of me!" Dick demands, pulling against their holds. He kicks out again when the fourth man steps in front of him, but this one catches his foot in a firm grip, not letting go even when Dick _yanks._

They get him onto the bed pretty easily from there.

Dick doesn't stop moving, twisting, trying to find the weak points in their hold. He gets a hand free and throws a punch, connecting with one of the men's faces. He grunts, snarling, and then grabs Dick's wrist in a bruising grip, keeping him from hitting again.

"Fuck, does anyone have anything to keep him from being such a brat?"

A brat? A _brat?_ Is he fucking serious?

"Let go of me!" Dick shouts. "Get off!"

"Shut him up," one of them hisses. "He's gonna draw attention!"

"I have a way to shut him up," another leers, and his meaning is perfectly clear when he palms at himself through his jeans.

Dick almost freezes as pure fear runs through him. They're actually doing this. They're really—they're going to—

"Put that anywhere near my mouth and I'll bite it off," Dick snarls, dead serious.

All of them still for a moment, maybe trying to judge if he's telling the truth or not, and then seem to come to the unanimous decision that he _does_ mean it, because none of them make any further comments nor motions towards sticking any body parts in his mouth.

"Here," one of them says, tossing something onto the bed. "Shove this in there, should keep 'im quiet."

And then there's a sock being jammed in his mouth, far enough that it makes him gag. He works his tongue around it, trying to push it out, but before he can, one of them is tying something around his head in a makeshift gag, keeping him from getting rid of the sock.

It's his tie, Dick realizes. It's his very own tie and his very own sock being used to keep him silent.

Dick lets out a desperate noise, bucking, trying to dislodge their grips, but they don't budge at all.

"What the fuck, did you bring that?" one of the men asks another, laughter in his voice, and Dick looks over to see what they're talking about, gut sinking like a stone when he sees that one of them is holding a roll of rope.

"Thought he might be difficult," the man says with a shrug and a smug smirk. "Sometimes whores get uppity, need a little extra encouragement. Bet you're glad now, huh?"

That statement implies that this man has done this before, has... _raped_ someone before, _multiple_ people. That means he won't be swayed by Dick's desperation, or how clearly he doesn't want this.

And, going by the way the other men seem appreciative, they won't be swayed, either.

Dick does his best to punch and pull against their grips, but they manage to hold him in place, using the rope to tie his hands to the headboard. Dick yanks against it desperately, his breathing far too fast, but it doesn't give.

"Much better," the man Dick hit chuckles, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "That'll keep you still, won't it, bitch?" He pats Dick's cheek condescendingly, and Dick jerks his head away with a glare. It only makes the men laugh.

One of them crawls onto the bed between Dick's legs, grinning darkly as he paws at Dick's thighs, then reaching around to do the same to his ass. Dick jerks, trying to move away, but it only serves to push him against the man sitting near his head.

"Christ, his ass," the man between his legs says, squeezing harshly at Dick's cheeks. "Can't wait to be buried inside it."

"Hey, why the fuck do you get to go first?" someone else grumbles, and the man sneers.

"Because I brought the rope then kept him from kicking you again, Miles, so shut the fuck up and wait your turn."

"Whatever, Danny," the other man— _Miles,_ apparently—mutters.

"Hey, where's the lube?"

"The fuck you need lube for? He'll be fine, just stick it in," the man Dick hit asks gruffly.

"Because I don't feel like chaffing my dick, Frank, so why the fuck don't you just find me some goddamn lube?"

"Here, I brought some, don't be an ass."

Dick knows that voice; Andrew. Andrew, who up until today had never been particularly cruel or harsh, even if he liked things on the rougher side. Andrew, who is currently holding a cellphone and pointing it at the bed.

They're videotaping this. They're... _fuck,_ they're actually recording this.

Andrew catches Dick looking, and smirks. "Like being watched, baby? Don't worry, it's just something for us to remember you by."

 _"Please,"_ Dick tries to say, but it comes out indistinguishable. They ignore him.

He squeezes his eyes shut when a finger shoves into him. It's not slow or kind, the man roughly fucking his finger into Dick's ass. There's barely any lube at all on it, nor on the second finger that the man— _Danny,_ the other guy called him—pushes in far too soon, and Dick wonders why they're even bothering at all with this pitiful attempt at stretching.

But at the same time he is disgustingly relieved that they're at least doing _something,_ because someone shoving their dick into him without any prep at all does _not_ sound fun.

The fingers pull out, there the rustle of clothes, the clink of a belt, and Dick tries to relax; it'll hurt so much more if he's tense, he knows from experience. He just needs to relax.

Easier said than done. _Far_ easier said than done.

 _"Please, don't,"_ Dick says, trying his best to enunciate, but it doesn't sound like anything at all.

"What's that?" Danny asks, his grin clear in his voice. Dick can feel the head of his cock nudge against his entrance. "You want me to hurry up? Don't worry, I'll give it to you, whore."

And then he pushes inside, hands clamping down on Dick's hips to help him shove inside. Dick screams behind the gag, clenching down on the intrusion involuntarily, and Danny moans, forcing himself in more roughly.

 _"Fuck,"_ the man says. _"Fuck._ He's so goddamn tight. Fuck."

"Told you he was good," Andrew says smugly.

"You weren't lyin'. This ass is a goddamn treasure."

He starts moving, sharp little thrusts in and out, steadily getting deeper and deeper, faster and faster, rocking Dick back and forth on the bed. It _hurts,_ far too little prep for something this big, and the man cares not at all for Dick's comfort, shuffling forward to pull Dick up onto his lap slightly. His belt buckle slaps against Dick's ass with every thrust, a stinging pain that just adds to the pain in his ass.

Dick can't stop the whimpers that are dragged out of him with each thrust, can't stop a cry of pain from climbing its way out of his throat on a particularly brutal one, feeling like he's on fire. It hurts so fucking much, tears stinging his eyes, and he wishes it would just end, wishes he'd finish getting his rocks off so they'd leave him the hell alone. He wants to go _home._

"God, absolutely made for this, whore. You picked the right goddamn profession."

"Hey," the man by Dick's head—Frank, they called him—says sharply, tapping his finger roughly against Dick's cheek. _"Hey."_

Dick pries his eyes open, wet with unshed tears, looking up in the lustful face above him. Frank has his pants open, his cock in his hand, jerking himself roughly, and he grins when he sees Dick's eyes flick to it.

"I'm gonna fuck your throat with this, baby," the man says.

"Are you nuts?" Andrew asks. "He didn't look like he was kidding."

"Just hang on a fucking second," Frank snaps back. His free hand reaches down to grip Dick's jaw, tight enough to surely leave bruises. "I'm gonna take that gag out of your mouth and shove my dick down your throat, and if you bite me I'll hit you hard enough to knock your teeth in, and then I'll do it again and again until you won't be able to bite at all. How's that sound?"

Dick squeezes his eyes shut again. No, no, _no._ This can't be happening, he has to be dreaming, he _has_ to be.

 _"Hey,"_ Frank says again, and instead of tapping him with his finger he slaps him instead, making Dick's eyes fly back open. "Do you fucking understand me? Nod if you do."

_No, no, no, no, no—_

Dick nods, a small sob escaping him without permission.

"Good boy," Frank grins. He undoes the knot of the tie and tosses it to the side, then yanks out the sock and throws it somewhere else as well. He swings his leg over, moving into a kneel above Dick's neck, and then without further hesitation pushes his cock into Dick's mouth.

Dick gags as it hits the back of his throat, but the man doesn't stop, forcing himself further, moaning loudly as he sheathes himself fully inside Dick's throat.

Through it all, Danny never stopped moving inside of him, harsh thrusts, hips snapping forward with each one. He can feel something sliding against his side, too, one of the other men rubbing their erection against him, and has to work not to vomit; he doubts they'd care overly much about him choking on it, and it's more than likely Frank would keep fucking his throat anyway.

"Fuck," Danny says again, and then his thrusts are stuttering, and then Dick can feel him come inside him, the liquid warm and disgusting as it fills him up.

Dick lets out a sob around the cock in his mouth, wincing as Danny pulls out roughly.

"Damn," Danny says on a breathless laugh. "Good shit, kid. Quite the ass."

Dick is so relieved when the man releases him with a final pat to his thigh, climbing off the bed.

But his relief is short-lived, one of the other men immediately sliding in to take Danny's place, yanking Dick's hips into position and lining his cock up.

This man is thicker and longer than Danny was, and seems to care even less for Dick's comfort, yanking Dick against him to meet every brutal thrust. It puts him in a disjointed rhythm between the thrusts in his throat and his ass, the pair of them yanking him between them uncomfortably.

Thankfully, Frank seems to be approaching his own finish, hips speeding up until he's coming down Dick's throat with a long moan.

Dick chokes, spasming as he fights to breathe and not asphyxiate on the cum, swallowing the disgusting fluid down.

"Who's next?" Frank asks with a grin as he pulls himself out of Dick's mouth, flopping onto the bed beside him.

"No," Dick says, voice weak and scratchy. "No, please, stop—"

The fourth man shoves Frank out of the way, laughing when Frank snaps a curse at him, and gets into position to take his turn fucking Dick's throat.

"No," Dick says again, practically sobbing the word out. "Stop, _please, no—"_

He's cut off when the man pushes inside without care. "Shut up, bitch," the man scoffs, and then moans as he presses deeper. _"Fuck,_ he feels so good."

Someone starts rubbing against his side again, movements fast and almost desperate, and then hot spurts of cum splash against Dick's chest and stomach.

"He looks so pretty like that," someone chuckles, and there's a chorus of agreements.

The man in Dick's ass pulls out, and Dick hears the sound of flesh against flesh, before the man moans long and loud and Dick feels cum splatter across his thighs and groin, adding to the way Danny's cum from before is leaking slowly out of Dick's ass.

The man shoves his fingers back into Dick's ass, making Dick wince, and fingerfucks him roughly.

"So fucking wet," he says, voice gravely with lust. "Like a bitch in heat."

His fingers jab against Dick's prostate, and it sends a jolt through Dick's body, toes curling.

The man fucking his throat moans. _"Fuck._ Whatever you just did, do it again; he swallowed around me. Got so fucking _tight."_

"You like that, whore?" the man between his legs—Dick's lost track of who's who—leers, and tries to replicate what he did before, his fingers shoving roughly against Dick's prostate.

It _hurts,_ it really does, but it also makes heat pool in Dick's gut, unwanted pleasure creeping up on him.

"Look at that," Andrew says, still holding that fucking camera. "He must _really_ like it; he's getting hard!"

No, no, _no._ Dick's doesn't want this, he doesn't want this, he wants them to _stop,_ he doesn't want them to force him to get off to his own rape, he can't—he doesn't— _no, no, please, stop—_

"'Course he does," someone snorts. "Little whores just love being fucked, don't they? Don't you, baby? Yeah, we're just giving the bitch what he wants."

_No, no, no, no, no—_

The man fucking his throat's hips stutter, and then he pulls out of Dick's throat in a harsh movement that has Dick coughing, desperately sucking in air. It's barely a second later that the man comes all over his face, coating his cheeks and lips and clumping his eyelashes, some even reaching into his hair.

The man's fingers swipe up some of the cum and shove it into Dick's mouth, making Dick gag, tossing his head.

"Like that taste?" the man goads. "Bet you do. Just want to take our cocks and drink our cum like a good little cumslut."

His fingers pull out, allowing Dick to turn his head into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut again, breath hitching with the sobs he's trying his best to keep inside.

"Someone take the fucking camera," Andrew says roughly. "It's my turn."

"Please," Dick keens. "Please, no more. _No more."_

The man's fingers in his ass retract, the bed dips, and Andrew takes ahold of his legs, pushing them all the way up to bend him in half; he's always loved how flexible Dick is.

Someone whistles. Someone else says, "Hot damn."

"I know, right?" Andrew says, almost smug.

"Please," Dick whimpers. "A-Andrew, please."

"You want my cock, baby?" Andrew leers. "I'll give it to you, don't worry."

 _"No,"_ Dick says. He tries for firm, but his voice shakes. He's croaking slightly, too, from having had multiple people fuck his throat. "No, please. Don't. _Don't."_

Andrew doesn't listen, just like none of them listened. He pushes inside in one smooth, slow thrust, groaning as he does it, fingers clenched painfully tight around Dick's thighs.

He starts slow, definitely slower than anything else that's happened tonight, and if Dick didn't think they'd just mock him for it he'd beg for Andrew to pick it up, to make this _end._ He just wants them to be finished, wants them to leave him alone. He wants to go home so badly it almost _burns._

But no, Andrew decides to take his time, fucking deep and slow, pushing as far in as he can before pulling all the way out until just the tip rests inside Dick's rim, before repeating the process. It's making the heat pool in Dick's gut again, and he hates it, he _hates_ it, he wants it to end, wants it to stop, _please make it stop—_

"Christ, Andy, you're not here to _make love,_ what the fuck you doin'?"

Andrew laughs, grinning, and obligingly snaps his hips forward. Dick gasps, yanking uselessly against the ropes binding his hands, and keeps trying to suck in air as Andrew picks up the pace, fucking forcefully in and out of Dick.

Someone's hand wraps around Dick's cock, and he lets out an involuntary sob, shaking his head rapidly. "No, please—"

"Shut up, whore," someone says, sounding _exasperated,_ like having someone beg them to stop raping them is a minor inconvenience. The hand around his cock speeds up, forcing Dick towards an orgasm he doesn't want, and a moan finds its way out of his throat when he comes, adding to the mess on his stomach.

There's laughter and jeering around him, but there's a roaring in Dick's ears that blessedly tunes out the specifics of what they're saying.

He rocks back and forth on the bed, closing his eyes and trying to pretend he's somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, not being raped by someone he'd thought was at least decent.

Andrew's hips snap forward one last time, and then he's coming inside Dick, too, his teeth clamping down on Dick's neck as he does it.

Distantly, Dick realizes he's going to have to go get himself checked for an STD after all of this. He's always been safe during sex, always careful, so he could keep himself—and his partners—healthy. But now, in one day, all of that is ruined.

The bed shifts as Andrew pulls himself out, Dick's legs flopping back down, and the others stand up as well. They're congratulating themselves, laughing, high-fiving.

"Nice job," someone says, patting Dick's thigh condescendingly. Dick opens his eyes, glaring up at him the best he can, but he knows it doesn't come across nearly as powerful as he wants it to be.

"Here," one of the men says, laughter in his voice, wallet in hand. He pulls out some bills and tosses them down onto the bed. Someone else follows suit, looking extremely humored by it all, and as they land on Dick's stomach they stick in place, the cum soaking them through.

"For your trouble," one of them says magnanimously, making the others laugh.

They're all heading towards the door, looking incredibly satisfied with themselves, and Dick's brow furrows. No, he's still tied down, they have to let him out.

"Wait," Dick says hoarsely, and they turn back to him with raised eyebrows.

"You lookin' for another round?"

"The whore just can't get enough, can he?"

Dick yanks weakly against the ropes. "Can you—please, untie me."

One of them smirks. "And deprive whoever finds you of this gorgeous sight? I don't think so."

And then they're gone.

And Dick is alone.

* * *

It takes Dick a very long time to get his fingers to work enough to begin trying to undo the knots keeping him bound to the headboard.

It's challenging. He has to pause every once in a while to take a few deep breaths, keep the panic building inside him at bay. He can do this. He's escaped being tied up many times before, and this is no different. It's no different. Not different at all.

A relieved whimper makes its way out of his throat when the ropes finally come loose, and he tugs his hands away, curling them against his chest.

He needs to get up, he knows. He _wants_ to get up, doesn't want to lie on this bed covered in...He wants to get up. But he just—he _hurts,_ and he feels unsteady. He's not sure his feet would hold him, if he tried to get up now.

"You're okay," Dick whispers to himself, barely able to raise his voice above that. He feels like he swallowed gravel. They certainly weren't gentle.

Dick forces himself to sit up, sucking in a sharp breath when his ass complains at the movement, throbbing.

"You're okay," Dick says again, when panic begins to claw at his chest. "You're okay. It's okay."

He shifts to move his legs over the side of the bed, grimacing as he does it. The cum on his chest and stomach slides down his body, sticky and slowly cooling, and it's that sensation that finally pushes him over the edge, vomiting on the nice comforter of the classy hotel.

It's acidic in his mouth, burning as it comes up, but it's a million times better than the taste of cum that clings.

He grabs one of the pillows, the one that he _hadn't_ been forced into lying on, and uses the end of the pillow case to wipe his face off the best he can. The feeling of his clumpy eyelashes makes nausea churn in his stomach again, and he works hard to breathe past it; he has a long path towards getting clean, and if he throws up every time he's faced with something awful, then he's going to be in a bad way very soon.

Standing is, as predicted, an awful thing. His legs shake, and there's a deep ache inside of him that he does his best to ignore, but it's made near impossible by the way it throbs with each step, with the way cum is sliding down his thighs.

Slowly, he makes his way to the hotel room's bathroom. He turns on the shower, thankful for the strong water pressure, and turns it as hot as it will go before stepping under the spray.

The hot water hurts, but it's a far better hurt than the other pains he's feeling, and scrubbing off all the cum staining his skin feels so very _good._

Hesitantly, Dick reaches back to his ass, his other hand bracing on the wall. His rim is extremely sensitive, immediately protesting being touched, but he forces himself to continue, inserting a finger inside himself.

It's wet, and painful, and Dick can't stop himself from vomiting again. But he doesn't let himself stop, doing his best to pull out the cum still inside of him. It comes out pink-tinged, but thankfully not a lot; if there was a lot of tearing Dick would have to go to a doctor to get it checked out, and even now he'll...probably have to, but minimal tearing means minimal treatment, and Dick is all for that.

When the water begins to feel like burning pinpricks, he gets himself to switch it off, carefully stepping out of the shower. There's a very fluffy towel hanging on a rack nearby, and he pats himself dry, body bright pink and sensitive. He grabs another towel to dry his hair, and then makes his way back out into the hotel room.

Dick stands and stares at the bed for a few long moments, bile at the back of his throat. The rope is still looped through the headboard, the comforter wrinkled and askew and covered in fluids. An uncapped bottle of lube sits off to the side. His sock and his tie are bunched up at the foot. There are a few specks of blood across the sheets.

He turns away sharply, squeezing his eyes shut, fighting not to panic.

They—he was—

"Breathe," he tells himself. "It's okay. Breathe. Just breathe."

Piece by piece, he slowly gets dressed again. Bending down to pull on his pants hurts, but he does his best to breathe through it, to ignore the sensations. Bruce trained him to block out pain, though Dick's pretty sure B didn't have something like _this_ in mind when he did so.

He forgoes putting on socks and doesn't approach the bed for his tie, leaving it as well. He feels kind of bad for the hotel's cleaning crew, but not nearly enough to force himself to clean up. He can barely stand to _look_ at the bed, let alone actually _touch_ it.

"Okay," Dick says, facing the door. "One step at a time."

Getting home is a long, painful affair. And when he finally gets there, when he finally locks the door behind him and puts on comfortable clothes instead of the suit, he lets himself break down, collapsing on the floor next to his bed, face pressed to the carpet as he cries.


	2. 10 Years Later

On a random Monday afternoon, Bruce receives an email from David Blake that has a link to a porn site and the message, _Damn, Brucie. This one's gotta take the cake._

David Blake is one of the people Bruce is forced to interact with at various functions, considering he's another of the richest men in Gotham and is around Bruce's age, but Bruce has never been fond of him. He's vulgar and pushy, using his station to brush aside any... _indiscretions_ he has.

 _Brucie,_ however, enjoys David's company quite a bit, the airheaded playboy thinking that how blunt David is is a refreshing set of pace, thinking that his dirty-veering-on-horrifying jokes are absolutely hysterical.

The fact that David's sending him a link to a porn website is not in the slightest bit surprising, and the message makes Bruce think that another video of Brucie getting it out with someone has made its way onto the internet. Bruce allows those, subtly encourages them, even, a constant reminder to people that Bruce Wayne really is nothing more than he appears to be.

So, Bruce clicks on the link, curious to see which hook-up of his is now public.

Instead, the title beneath the video doesn't say his name, but _Pretty Whore Gangbang._

Bruce stares incredulously, the video still loading, wondering why the hell David sent him this. Is that something David's doing now? Sending his friends random pornos? That's reaching a whole other level of uncomfortable, if so.

The video loads, and it startles Bruce how violent it is right at the beginning. Usually, porn videos try to build up, most starting with some atrocious dialogue and attempt at acting.

Instead the video starts with three men holding another, one with a grip around his leg, the other two grabbing his torso and trying to hold onto his arms, dragging him towards the bed. The man is struggling, the kind of twisting and squirming that is far too chaotic, far too _desperate,_ for it to be faked, some form of consent play. No, the punch the man throws, the way he yanks against their holds as they pin him to the bed—this isn't just a gangbang. This is a gang _rape._

And then whoever is holding the camera changes positions, getting a better look at the struggling man's face, and the air gets sucked out of Bruce's lungs.

It's Dick, there's absolutely no mistaking it. It's _Dick,_ getting pinned down, screaming at them to let go of him, snarling, _"Put that anywhere near my mouth and I'll bite it off."_

Bruce feels frozen, unable to move or look away, horror filling every part of his being. It isn't until a man approaches the bed with a roll of rope, his intentions painfully clear, that Bruce jerks forward and closes the video.

As soon as it's out of view, Bruce sucks in a deep breath. It's still playing in his mind, the image of his son naked and afraid, being forced down, about to be...about to be raped.

He looked so... _young._ Fuck, how old was he there? When did this happen? And how did Bruce never know about it?

The door to his study bangs open, Jason storming in with Cassandra at his side, Alfred trailing slightly behind. Jason looks absolutely furious, features contorted with rage, while Cassandra looks grave, something sick in the twist of her lips.

Jason takes one look at Bruce, at whatever must be painted across Bruce's expression, and says, "You've seen it, too."

Christ, how widespread is this? Bruce hadn't even begun to calculate the ramifications of this. If David sent him the link with clear knowledge that it was Dick, then it's likely that many more people know it's Dick, too. How many people have seen the video so far? How many more will before he gets it taken down? And how long before the gossip rags catch wind of it?

"Someone sent it to me," Bruce confirms. His voice is level, but there's a slightly hoarse quality to it that he can't quite disguise.

His son was raped, and everyone is going to have seen it.

"May I ask what exactly is going on?" Alfred inquires, looking at them with a worried frown.

Bruce's lips part, but he has no idea what he can possibly say. Alfred should be made aware by the family and not by the media or someone else. But actually _telling_ someone who is basically Dick's grandfather that Dick was raped—it's a hard thing to do.

"There's a video online," Jason says for him, always better than him at this kind of thing, always stronger. "Of Dick. Being...hurt. In a very particular way."

Jason's trying to be delicate, whether for Dick's sake or Alfred's, but the way Alfred straightens, jaw clenching, shows he understands what Jason is implying.

"Oh dear," Alfred says quietly.

"How did the pair of you see it?" Bruce asks, looking between his two children. How much of it did they see? Are they going to have nightmares about it like Bruce is sure he will?

"I was picking Cass up from dance," Jason explains. "There was someone there, said something about Dick...We investigated."

Jason's tone makes it clear that he really wishes they hadn't investigated.

"And...how _much_ did you see?"

"Only a couple seconds," Cassandra tells him. "Dick was...still held up. I shut it off."

"She knew where it was going," Jason says quietly, and Bruce understands what he means; the title of the video might've been a giveaway about what was going to happen, but there's a difference between _knowing_ and actually seeing someone you love in a position like that, especially if you're still trying to come to terms that it is that individual at all.

Cass, though. She would've identified right from the start that it was Dick, would've read the intentions in the men's bodies, the fear in Dick's. And so she shut it off before either of them could truly see anything.

Bruce is grateful to her for that; they don't need to see what Bruce hadn't been able to stop himself from seeing. Dick pinned to the bed, the desperate fear, the way the men talked about finding ways to _shut him up._ Bruce wishes he could scrub it from his brain. It would be much harder to handle if he knew his children had seen it, too.

Which reminds him—Damian is up in his room, he wouldn't have been exposed to this at all. But Tim. He doesn't know where Tim is.

Bruce picks up his phone, punching in Tim's phone number quickly.

"Who are you calling?" Jason asks, but it's Cass who says, "Tim."

The call connects, thank god. _"Hey, B. What's up?"_

"Where are you?" Bruce asks, trying to keep his voice even, calm; no need to worry Tim if he doesn't have to. Not yet.

There's a brief pause, and then Tim says, _"Getting lunch with Conner and Steph. Why? Did something happen?"_

"No one's hurt," Bruce says, knowing what the jumped conclusion would be. _Well, not hurt right now._ "And there's no large catastrophe going on. But I need you to come back to the Manor right now. Have Conner fly you."

He can practically hear Tim's eyebrows go up; they all know Bruce would rather pretend metas don't exist in his city at all, and he _certainly_ doesn't like giving meta heroes permission to use their powers. The fact that Bruce is instructing Tim to make use of the kryptonian means there's some urgency.

And there is urgency; someone's going to call or approach Tim, whether for a statement or to simply ask him about it, and that's not how Bruce would like for Tim to find out about this. He'd rather he didn't find out about it at _all,_ really, but Bruce is practical enough to know that's extremely unlikely.

This isn't going to just vanish in a day. This is going to linger for a long, _long_ time.

_God, Dick._

"Tim."

_"I'm on my way, Bruce. Be there soon."_

Bruce nods sharply despite the fact that his son can't see him, and then he hangs up.

"Have we heard from Master Richard?" Alfred asks and Bruce blinks at him. Right, Dick. Fuck. Has Dick seen it yet? Have people approached him? God, have people _sent it to him?_

"No," Cassandra says.

"And I doubt we will, if he's already aware," Jason says quietly. "The fact that he kept this hidden from us for years means he'd probably try to hide away from this, too."

He's not wrong. Bruce absolutely hates it.

Especially because he doesn't know how to protect Dick from this. If this video is widespread enough already that it's being sent to Bruce and mentioned to his children, then it's going to hit Dick very hard very soon. The press and the vultures of Gotham's high society love smelling blood in the water, and it's been rather quiet lately; they'll _love_ dragging this through everyday conversation, will mention it all the time from here until the far future.

A lot of them will be well-meaning, he knows. As _well-meaning_ as these people ever get, of course. They'll want to ask how Dick's doing, how he's handling this, saying what a _dreadful_ thing it all is, offering their help or a shoulder to cry on. There will be victim blaming, too, whether or not it's intentional. Sympathetic suggestions of how to avoid a situation like this in the future.

And none of that can possibly compare to the ones who will be getting off on this video, the ones who will look at Dick and see what's possible, what's already been done to him. Think about how they could do it, too.

Bruce spends a majority of his life in the darkness of Gotham, seeing the worst of humanity. He can all too easily see where this is headed.

There's a rap of knuckles on the window, and Bruce looks over to see Kon-El with Tim in his arms, both of them with serious, concerned expressions. Tim slides the window open and steps inside, murmuring a goodbye to the kryptonian, and a promise to call him later.

When Kon-El is gone, Tim turns to the rest of his family, looking between them and probably reading a hundred things in their expressions, none of it good.

"Okay, what happened? You said no one's been hurt?"

Bruce opens his mouth, but no words come out. What can he possibly say here? Dick has been—Dick was—it's not Bruce's right to share this. But this is going to hit the family. The instant it got put online and Dick got recognized, it became a family matter. That might not be fair, but it's the state of things now, and there's no going back.

"Okay, I'm gonna give this to you straight," Jason says shortly, after Bruce must've been silent for too long. "A video was put up on a porn website. It's clearly rape. And it's..." He clears his throat, his hands balling into fists at his sides, tight enough that his knuckles look white. "It's Dick, in the video."

Tim goes pale, jerking back, eyes going wide. His eyes dart over to Bruce, begging him to refute that statement, and then to Cassandra and Alfred.

"No," Tim says. "No, you're lying. That...that can't have happened. Dick wasn't...he..."

He sits down heavily, staring distantly at the wall. After a little while he says, "How long has this been...out there?"

"We don't know," Bruce says, and glances at Jason for confirmation, in case their "investigation" turned up anything specific like that, but Jason offers no information. "I was sent the video just a little while ago, and apparently someone mentioned it to Cassandra."

"I think it would be prudent for us to contact Master Richard," Alfred cuts in. "No further discussion should be had on the subject until _he_ has been made aware of the situation and has time to decide where he wants to go from here."

"We don't have that kind of time, Alfred," Bruce says seriously. "There's isn't time for Dick to _decide_ anything. This is already out there. We need to start—"

"No, Al's right," Jason cuts in. "Screw the fucking perception for five minutes. We need...Dick deserves to be a part of this conversation. Fuck, he deserves to decide what conversation we have at all!"

Bruce disagrees; given how public this clearly already is, there is no space for Dick to decide anything. That's not fair in any regard, but it is what it is. They've moved past Dick making a game plan and moved into calling the family PR team and figuring out exactly how to address this. They should get in contact with Dick absolutely, but they can't wait for him to adjust to all of this before they move forward.

"He's coming over for dinner tonight," Tm says. "We can tell him then?"

"And just hope that in the next four hours no one says anything to him? No one sends him the video? Hell, no stupid press go after him?"

Bruce looks down at his cellphone as his children begin to bicker. He needs to call Dick, because this is far better to hear in a controlled environment than if someone approaches him on the street.

But the idea of having to tell Dick that he's seen this, having to look his son in the eye when something so _horrifying_ happened to him that Bruce had been unable to stop, hadn't even ever known about—how can he face that? He's failed as a parent. Spectacularly. His job is to keep his children safe, and a group of men violently _raped_ Dick, and Bruce didn't even know. When did it happen? Dick looked so...so _young._ So afraid. He couldn't have been more than twenty, could he? His teenage son was gangraped and he'd done nothing.

"Quiet," Bruce snaps to the room as he pulls up Dick's contact and presses the call button. He turns away while it rings, not wanting to look in the faces of his other kids while he talks to the one he's failed more spectacularly than he even knew.

 _"Hey!"_ Dick greets. _"I was just about to call you."_

Bruce blinks. "You—you were?"

_"Mmhm. I wanted to know if you wanted to see my notes on the Migeli case? I know you and Babs are tracking some loose ends that made their way to Gotham, and thought you could use the details I have since it originated in Blud. Want me to bring the stuff tonight?"_

"I—sure, Dick, but that's not why I'm calling. Are you working right now?"

 _"I'm on break at work,"_ Dick says, his tone clearly showing that he knows something's up. _"Why? What's up?"_

"It's not really a conversation to be had on the phone. Everyone's okay, but if you can get off work early, do it. I'd like you to come to the Manor as soon as possible." He hesitates, and then adds, "Pack a bag."

_"You're freakin' me out a little, B."_

"I know. I...I'm sorry. I'll explain when you get here."

_"...Alright. I'll say I have a family emergency. Be there soon."_

"Good. See you soon."

Bruce hangs up before he can apologize again, knowing that would only add stress to Dick when his son is an hour away with no information about what's happening other than no one in their family is hurt.

"Don't let him fuck this up," Bruce hears Jason say, and turns back around to see him talking to the others in the room. "You know how Bruce gets. Don't let him fuck this up."

"You're leaving," Cassandra says with a furrow between her brows.

Tim jerks in his seat, eyes going wide again. _"What?_ Why? Jay, you can't leave—"

"Vengeance," Cassandra says simply, a conflicted look on her face. She puts a hand on Jason's arm. "Please, let Dick...decide."

Jason's expression twists, somewhere between furious and devastated. "But we both know what Dick would say about what those shitbags deserve."

Cassandra offers a sad smile. "Exactly."

Jason clenches his jaw and then, after a moment, nods sharply. "But I'm still hunting them down and putting the fear of me in 'em. You can't stop me from doin' that."

Cassandra shakes her head. "Wouldn't."

"Jason," Bruce warns. "Don't forget the rules."

Jason sneers at him, a disgusted look in his eyes. "You're something else, you know that? Again and again, horrible people do horrible things to your children, and your response is to do _nothing._ How do you sleep at night, letting them get away with it? Dick was _raped,_ Bruce. You gonna do anything _substantial_ about that? Or just slap a pair of handcuffs on them and call it a day, happy that you upheld your precious little _code."_

Bruce takes a few deep breaths. He doesn't want to argue with Jason right now. It will accomplish nothing.

When he says nothing, Jason's sneer simply deepens and he turns away, heading for the door. He pauses briefly next to Alfred and quietly says, "Call me if he needs anything, okay?"

Alfred nods. "Of course, Master Jason. I'll make sure he knows he can go to you."

Jason nods tightly, and then he's gone, leaving behind four people who love Dick and have to somehow have such a horrible conversation with him.

Bruce is almost jealous; he'd far rather be tracking down the men responsible and beating them into a pulp than sitting here waiting, trying to think up the best way to break horrifying news to an already traumatized boy.

* * *

Dick can probably count on one hand the number of times Bruce has said _"_ _I'm sorry"_ to him, and so the fact that Bruce just did over the phone for something as minor as being creepily vague—well, it's a sure sign that something is very wrong.

He reminds himself over and over again that B said that everyone is okay, and he wouldn't lie about that. Something else might be wrong, wrong enough to have Bruce randomly apologizing, but his family is fine.

He cuts his break short, heading towards the office and quickly knocking. He's been working at this bar for about two years now, and he rather likes it; relatively good people, surprisingly good pay, and helpfully close to his apartment. Plus the owner of the bar, Ryan, rather reminds Dick of Commissioner Gordon, in regards to his demeanor and dry sense of humor, which can be comforting. Doesn't hurt that Ryan likes Dick well enough as well.

"Come in," Ryan calls, and Dick pushes inside. The man is reclining in his desk chair, feet up on the desk, brow scrunched up as he frowns down at an order form in his hands. His glasses are askew, and as he glances up at Dick he absently fixes them.

"Grayson, what can I do y'for?"

"Hey, I'm so sorry, but there's an emergency with my family and I really need to leave. Is that okay?"

Ryan waves a hand through the air. "'Course, kid, go. Bar's basically dead today; Maggie can handle it by herself until the shift's up. Go deal with your family. Keep me updated if it'll mess with your schedule past today."

Dick nods quickly, relieved; the man's always been easy-going and nice to his employees, and Dick is so thankful for it.

"Thank you, Ryan. I'll let you know."

He gets out of there quickly, grabbing his things and then heading to his apartment. Once more he reminds himself that his family is fine, and then he does it again and again, the words practically a mantra in his head as he packs a three-days-worth bag of stuff, erring on the side of overprepared rather than under.

When he's done, he goes down the fire escape, too impatient to wait for the elevator. He makes his way to his car and slides into the driver's seat, tossing his bag into the back, and then pulls out on the street, heading towards Gotham.

Dick is about halfway through the drive when his phone rings.

He answers it without checking for caller ID, not wanting to take his eyes off the road and figuring it must be Bruce calling again, or maybe another member of the family.

"Hello?" he says, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear. His fingers drum anxiously on the steering wheel, and he reminds himself once more that everyone is fine. Bruce wouldn't lie about that.

_"Hi there, is this Dick Grayson?"_

Dick frowns at the unfamiliar voice, but says, "Yes, that's me. Who is this?"

_"My name is Marisa James, I work for Gotham Lights Reporting."_

Dick rolls his eyes; Gotham Lights Reporting is one of the trashiest "news shows" Gotham has to offer, always trying to pretend to be serious journalism while basically just being story-hungry paparazzi with a bit of fancy glitter smeared over them. When Dick was younger he had to deal with them—and others like them—countless times because of Bruce, but he'd been mostly left alone after moving to Bludhaven.

"Look—" Dick sighs, exasperated. He doesn't care about what latest "scandal" they want to ask him about. He's been the king of _"No Comment"_ for years now, and he has no intention of giving up that title.

_"I just wanted to give you a chance to tell your side of the story, Mr. Grayson!"_

Dick pauses. "My...side?"

Apparently seeing this as an invitation, Marisa excitedly says, _"Yes! So many awful things are going around right now, and I thought maybe you'd like to say in your own words what happened, since all people are seeing is the video, and making their own judgments."_

"Video?" Dick asks, mystified. "What video?"

There's a pause, and then Marisa says, _"Oh dear. You haven't heard. Well, the video of, um, your...gangbang, Mr. Grayson."_

For a single moment, time truly feels like it stands still. The cars around him slow, the pop song coming out of his speakers comes out note by single note, his breathing rattles as it goes in and goes out.

_"—son? Mr. Grayson, are you there?"_

And then everything is far too fast. His heart is thudding in his chest, his breathing speeding towards hyperventilation, the world spinning around him.

"I-I'm sorry," Dick says, and though his voice is barely more than a whisper, it feels like blaring noise in his ears. "Did you...have you _seen_ the—that video? You've...how...?"

 _"Well,"_ the woman says awkwardly. _"Oh dear. Everyone's seen it, Mr. Grayson. Well, I couldn't stomach more than a few seconds of it honestly—not really to my tastes, you know—but I know that..."_

She keeps talking, but there's a rushing in Dick's ears that is blocking everything else out. His body is starting to tingle, and he finds that he's shaking enough that the phone gets dislodged from its position, falling off of his shoulder and down to the floor between his feet.

Faintly, Dick can hear the woman's voice still coming out of his cellphone's speaker, but it's garbled nonsense for how well he understands what's being said.

_Everyone's seen it, Mr. Grayson._

Everyone's seen it. _Everyone's seen it._ Why. Why. Why. _How?_ When did this happen? _How_ could this happen? Why would they...It's a video of them—raping him. Why would they ever share it? It's unbelievably incriminating. Sure, the statute of limitations might be up by this point but it's still a video of them _raping somebody._ Prosecutable or not, that's not good.

_Everyone's seen it._

God, he's gonna be sick.

His vision is starting to blur, the highway in front of him completely unclear, and he has just enough presence of mind to pull himself over and shift the car into park before he slams open his door and vomits on the side of the road. His seatbelt tugs uncomfortably on him and he jabs at the release button with a shaking hand, desperate to get out.

People have seen the video. The video of him being...of him...

Dick stumbles out of the car, sucking in deep gasps of air, trying to not hyperventilate. He's seeing double, the tree line off to the side of the road swimming in his vision, and he's suddenly desperate to get away. He can't be here. He can't. He needs to get away.

_Everyone's seen it, Mr. Grayson._

Bruce sounded so odd on the phone. Bruce apologized. Bruce wanted him to come home as soon as possible. _Bruce saw the video._

Dick starts walking towards the trees, his steps staggered. He takes one step after another, one step after another, and doesn't stop walking until his legs ache enough that they give out from under him.

He has no idea where he is. It's dark out, now. And cold. He can't hear any signs of civilization nearby. He's so _exhausted._

Bruce saw. Who else saw?

_Everyone's seen it._

Dick allows himself to tip over onto his side, curling his legs up against his chest and pressing his head against a small pile of leaves, breathing in the crisp scent of coming winter.

He closes his eyes and lets his body melt against the ground. Maybe if he has no clue where he is, no one else will, either. Maybe he can just rot away right here, never have to face anyone who's seen.

_Everyone's seen it._

Dick closes his eyes a little tighter, and then lets the exhaustion and the cold take him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is pretty opened ended, so there might be a third chapter coming, but I'm undecided as of this moment. We'll see. If not, any of y'all are welcome to do your own continuation!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed :)


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